Benny Safdie’s The Smashing Machine—premiering here at the —impresses as much for its narrative restraint as for its overt storytelling. Safdie, also the scriptwriter, chronicles the life of Mark Kerr, a real-life mixed-martial artist, UFC champion, and formidable fighter, who ascended to global fame, succumbed to opioid addiction, and then fought his way back to stability and achievement. The film avoids excessive dramatic contrivances or conventional Rocky-style narratives, despite their potential effectiveness. Instead, Safdie places his trust in star , allowing him to guide us through Kerr’s journey of rising fame, dependency, and rehabilitation without falling into addiction-recovery clichés. Kerr overcomes his addiction early in the film, sidestepping a prolonged decline or a dramatic rock bottom. Consequently, much of the movie portrays a champion who has fallen and risen again, grappling with the question, “Now what?” It is this persistent inquiry that truly drives the film.
The film opens around 1997, with Johnson’s Kerr at the pinnacle of his career. We hear a commentator describing the action as Kerr brutally overpowers an opponent. “Wow! A magnificent knee to the face, and another knee to the face!” For those unfamiliar—a category this reviewer fell into before The Smashing Machine—the “knee to the face” was once a prominent MMA technique, though it’s largely banned in the UFC today. For viewers disinclined towards combat sports, the scenes are excruciating. The moves appear agonizingly painful and potentially lethal. (It’s no surprise Senator John McCain attempted to ban MMA in 1996, calling it “human cockfighting” after witnessing a UFC match.) Yet, another aspect of MMA, as depicted in The Smashing Machine, is that fighters in this demanding sport often recover quickly, treating opponents as comrades rather than bitter rivals, even after defeat. Despite their drive to inflict maximum damage, they maintain a veneer of sportsmanship, though Kerr’s desire to win unequivocally overshadows all else.
Kerr shares his life with girlfriend Dawn, exquisitely portrayed by . While supportive and dedicated, cohabiting with a driven athlete—especially one battling addiction—proves largely frustrating. Kerr scolds her for preparing a power-smoothie with yesterday’s preferred ingredients, ignoring his new, unannounced combination of bananas, whole milk, and protein powder. She discreetly rolls her eyes, revealing how his irritability and meticulousness are steadily eroding her patience.
Conversely, Dawn occasionally dotes on him in ways he perceives as emasculating. This couple struggles to find a middle ground, perhaps because such a thing is unattainable. After Kerr loses a match, ending a remarkable winning streak, he finally confronts the detrimental effects of his accumulated opioid abuse. He enters rehab, emerging resolute in his commitment to sobriety—a new resolve that, ironically, irks Dawn, who views it as sanctimonious. These characters defy predictable behavior, feeling authentic rather than merely scripted, their flaws and strengths mirroring those observed in our own lives. During a trip to Japan for a match, Kerr steps into a shop filled with delicate, exquisite items. He selects a luminous ceramic bowl as a gift for Dawn, then impulsively grabs a silk scarf from a display, handing it to the saleswoman. “This too,” he remarks. “My girlfriend loves colors.” While the appreciation of colors is universal, there’s a poignant tenderness in this massive man’s capacity for such a gentle gesture.
Beyond Kerr and Dawn’s explosive arguments, significant drama unfolds involving Kerr’s closest friend, Mark Coleman (MMA fighter Ryan Bader). Coleman, another aging champion, transitions to become Kerr’s trainer. Friction arises between Dawn and Coleman, both seeking Kerr’s best interests but differing on the path to achieve them. Subsequently, an unforeseen event creates a rift between Coleman and Kerr as well. Bader delivers a sharp, nuanced performance, showing remarkable restraint in scenes where even seasoned actors might overact. His portrayal underscores that these athletes are, at their core, just men—undeniably driven by testosterone, but the best among them also recognize the profound value of loyalty amidst fierce competition.
Safdie and cinematographer Maceo Bishop imbue the film with a subtly grungy aesthetic, as if the visuals have been gently textured with sandpaper—a fitting choice for a harsh, unrefined sport, evoking a ’70s Times Square ambiance. Safdie also makes intelligent, deliberate musical selections; a standout is Billy Swann’s rhythmic, captivating rendition of “Don’t Be Cruel.” He provides ample scope for Johnson to excel in the role of Kerr. Johnson’s physique possesses an almost surreal quality: a monument of sculpted muscle resting upon shapely, sinewy legs. As expected, The Smashing Machine features numerous fight sequences, including plenty of the aforementioned knee-to-the-face maneuvers. However, the sound design often surpasses the visuals in its unsettling impact; the visceral sound of flesh being pulped like raw meat feels inherently inhumane. One wonders about the motivation to inflict or endure such pain. As Kerr, Johnson helps us grasp this primal drive. Outside the ring, his eyes convey a soft, contemplative quality, akin to a dreamy sailor contemplating his next journey. His portrayal of Kerr encompasses a lover, a fighter, an athlete, a winner, and a loser—all woven into a single complex human being. The film’s conclusion suggests that the real-life Kerr ultimately found a measure of peace, despite the brutal path he traversed.